


always the gentle whisper:

by chartreuser



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-06-01 22:30:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6539065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chartreuser/pseuds/chartreuser
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack wants. It's nothing new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (nothing is realistic but ice still thaws in winter)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic assumes that the Graduation Kiss didn't happen.
> 
> I would like to put a disclaimer here that: I'm not American. I don't know why I'm writing a road trip AU. Why? Why am I doing this?!?!?! Anyway yes this fic is dedicated to the folks over at #omgchatplease, thank y'all so much for motivating me and giving me ideas! 
> 
> And a huge thank you to ngozi, as always!

Jack comes out.

 

It’s a slow discussion with Georgia, but he pulls through. Grits his teeth when they ask how much he’d be willing to open his privacy (which he never really had in the first place) and nods his head when appropriate. He attends an interview and the media is polite about it. He washes his face five times in the mornings and doesn’t reach for his pills.

 

He’s okay.

 

 

 

 

 

His mom says, “be careful,” and kisses him on the cheek on their front porch, pressing a hand to his face. Jack’s arms are still tense from his latest panic attack, but he holds her tighter all the same. When she hugs him—it doesn’t feel like he’s in his mid-twenties. It’s an instant teleportation back to his old hospital room, where he breathed in medicine and felt his fingertips dig into the palms of his hands, tried to forget, tried to put aside hockey.

 

“I love you,” Jack tells her. “Thanks for supporting me.”

 

“It’s what we’re here for,” she says.

 

 

 

 

 

“We’ll be here when you come back,” his dad says. “You know our numbers. Give us a call anytime.”

 

“Thanks,” says Jack, and his father gives him a few more pats on the shoulder.

 

“Is anyone going with you?”

 

Jack turns around, halfway to the car. “Not really—why?”

 

His dad’s eyes flicker to his; there’s something he’s not telling Jack, but he doesn’t mind. It’s good practice to stop doubting yourself. He gets a shrug in response.

 

“We love you,” he says instead. It warms Jack up from the inside out.

 

 

 

 

 

The drive down to Samwell’s quiet, I-95 empty. His phone is probably wrecked by all the messages he’s received by now but it’s okay, Jack doesn’t think he needs it anyway. He’s left it turned off in Providence—there’s nothing to tell him what the press is saying or what people think.

 

His father’s words stay with him the entire way, though it’s not as if Jack’s a stranger to loneliness. If anything—this was supposed to be on his own time, on his own rules; he’d left all the electronics behind for a reason. It’s the peace he’s seeking.

 

Jack turns off the engine, but doesn’t get out of the car. Bitty’s leaning back against the doorframe, still looking at his phone—he’s probably just finished his finals, and went straight back to his Twitter obsession. Probably hasn’t heard his car pull up in the driveway, either.

 

“Hey,” he says, sliding his hands into his pockets.

 

“Hey,” Bitty says back, a slow smile blooming on his face, “you did it. Twitter’s blowin’ up. You made a lot of teenagers happy.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Bitty nods, doesn’t look away. Jack could kiss him; he wants to. It seems that it’s all he wants, lately, the Skype calls and text messages and the promises to keep in touch will never be enough, and it’s true. He doesn’t want him to be a friend that he visits on the regular; Jack’s led his team to the Stanley but it still doesn’t satisfy. But this is it, he thinks. He’s going to be try and be happy.

 

Bitty bites down on his lower lip. Steps closer to Jack, just out of reach, and he can smell the pies that Bitty must’ve been baking. Maple. “So—why are you here?”

 

“Don’t know, honestly,” Jack tells him. “I think I just wanted to say goodbye, before going for the trip, but Ransom and Holster don’t seem to be around.”

 

“Oh! They went for a double date, earlier on. You missed them by a few.”

 

Jack sighs. “Bad luck, eh?”

 

“You’ll catch them next time,” Bitty says, bumping his shoulder into Jack’s. He doesn’t move away. “You’re planning on the Midwest, right?”

 

Jack nods. There’s a strand of hair that threatens to fall into Bitty’s eyes, and there’s a speck of flour somewhere on his cheek; he’s itching to brush them away. Run his fingers along the side of Bitty’s cheek just for the sake of touching him. Sometimes, when all he can do is watch him chatter away on a computer screen—he thinks he remembers this, the frightening urge to be around Bitty, tasting pies and eating whatever’s thrown his way. He thinks—maybe. If only he was brave enough.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says, finally, grasping for the last bit of courage leftover from the press release. “Do you want to come with me?”

 

Bitty freezes. “What?”

 

Jack shrugs. “It’s just for a few days, I could drive you back here when we’re done. But you can’t bring your phone along.”

 

Bitty shifts his gaze to his car. It’s nondescript, nothing that screams _Jack Zimmermann, hockey player._ “What about my iPods?”

 

“Sure,” Jack says. “No Twitter, though.”

 

Bitty looks so perplexed by the suggestion that Jack’s heart softens. “You can always say no, if you want. It’s just,” Jack takes a deep breath. “I want to forget.”

 

“—Okay.”

 

“Okay?”

 

Bitty wraps a hand around his wrist. “I’ll come with you. On the condition that I get to choose the music.”

 

Jack laughs.

 

 

 

 

 

It takes Bitty around half an hour to pack his things, and Jack waits for him patiently, leaning against the side of his car as he fiddles with his Falcs cap. Bitty jogs down to him, carrying an overnight gym bag, and Jack asks, “is that all you’re bringing.”

 

Bitty rolls his eyes at him. “Trust me. If there was a way for me to bring the oven, the first thing I’d put in the trunk will be it.”

 

 “I’m sure you could hijack a restaurant somewhere along the way,” Jack reassures him. “Tell them how they’re making pies the wrong way.”

 

“Aren’t you funny,” Bitty says, aiming for a stern look—but he seems to have a hard time pushing down a smile, and Jack relaxes. “I’m sure I could handle it. Nothing to be stress baking about, right?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jack tells him. “I might be kind of annoying, after a while.”

 

Bitty folds his arms, and raises an eyebrow at him. “I’ve lived with you for one year, Jack.”

 

“True,” he says, and turns to open the car door. “Wanna go?”

 

 

 

 

 

They’ve decided. Jack will be the one driving first, and when he gets tired, Bitty will take over. They’re driving down to Illinois first, probably to visit Chicago, and Bitty has his iPod plugged into the AUX cord. It’s probably Beyonce that he’s playing.

 

“How good are you with an atlas?” Jack asks, pulling up at a rest station. The drive’s been uneventful so far; Bitty had been napping until they were two hours in, and then he’d happily started singing along to his pop music, swaying his head to the beat. His presence is unusually soothing, for someone who hasn’t stopped humming under his breath for the past few hours.

 

“Decent,” Bitty says, turning his head towards the window to survey the shops outside. He’s wearing a tank top that exposes his nape, and Jack resists the urge to reach for his 5DS; the morning light’s catching perfectly in the hollows of his collarbones.

 

He clears his throat. “Uh, okay. How about you navigate while I drive?”

 

“Sure,” Bitty says, turning back to him. Their fingers brush when he reaches over for the atlas, and Jack—

 

“Restroom,” he excuses himself, and flees out of the car.

 

It’s honestly not a shocking turn of events; Jack’s known his feelings for a while now. It’s just that he’d expected them to simmer down, that maybe spending whatever time he has with Bitty wouldn’t make him want to combust into flames. It feels awful, trying to keep his hands off of him.

 

“Right,” Jack mutters, and splashes some water onto his face. He’s got this.

 

 

 

 

 

“Turn right at the next junction,” Bitty says, interrupting his own humming. Asks, “what is it?”

 

He’s probably caught Jack smiling. “It’s just—you’re talking to me like a GPS system.”

 

“Well, I’m _navigating_ , because you’ve almost got us lost for like, three times.”

 

Jack chuckles. “Fair enough,” he says, remembering to turn right. “You know—I wouldn’t mind if you sang.”

 

Bitty perks up. Jack can see his freckles in his peripherals, they’re light but they’re still there. “Wouldn’t you?”

 

“Not really,” Jack says, bringing his car to a stop at the red light. He looks over, and Bitty’s still looking at him, expression open. He feels his face flushing. “I like it, actually. When you sing.”

 

“Oh,” Bitty grins, looking so pleased that Jack feels some part of the satisfaction himself. “You did, once.”

 

“Not anymore,” Jack reassures him, and forces himself to look away when the light turns green. “Go on. You can start singing that halo halo song, now, if you want.”

 

Bitty bats at his arm gently—he’s stronger than he looks—and hurries to switch the song on his iPod, and Jack’s listened to it enough to recognise that it _is_ Halo. Bitty starts singing.

 

 

 

 

 

They pull into rest stations a couple more times, but no one notices Jack. He knows the world is talking about him; that the press was still shouting when he left. He didn’t really care to listen to what they were screaming, figured that he’ll read all the nastiness and the disapproval when he comes back.

 

He still maintains that it was worth it. Jack will have more hostility on the ice but it’s nothing he hasn’t gone through before; he’s been slammed into the boards with more jokes of his overdose than he’d bothered to remember. The negativity is—part of it, sometimes, the hockey. He figured that it was where he wanted to be, this was who he was going to be, this was what he was going to have. Things play out and you shake off the hurt, stay focused.

 

His determination can see him through; it always has. But he’s on the road, now, and that’s something he’ll come back to. Jack’s brought a phone for emergencies but that’s for emergencies only.

 

It’s another thing now that Bitty’s with him.

 

 

 

 

 

“Is there anything you’d want to do in Chicago?” Jack asks, when the road is empty and he can afford the distraction.

 

Bitty says, “Garett Popcorn,” and then, “don’t you _dare_ chirp me.”

 

“I never said anything,” Jack protests, and steals Bitty’s iPod to change the song.

 

“You give that back, Mister Zimmermann,” Bitty sputters, jabbing at Jack’s side to no avail. “You _said_ I could choose the songs.”

 

“Right,” Jack says, “but I like Taylor Swift.”

 

Bitty looks like he’s about to force Jack into another one of his pop culture lectures as he points a finger at him. It just makes Jack want to rile him up even more, but he gives Bitty back his iPod.

 

“Do you want to go to the Field Museum with me?” Jack asks.

 

Bitty giggles. “Of course you’d want to. Yeah, I’ll come.”

 

“Alright,” he grins, and Jack’s been doing so much smiling in one day that his lips are starting to hurt. He hasn’t felt this light in days.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack remembers wanting to drive himself everywhere when he was 17, although his hands were still wet when they gripped the steering wheel. It didn’t really calm his anxiety down, but it gave him something to do, things to focus on. But it wasn’t hockey either, where everything about him had to be sharp, whether he wanted it or not.

 

“I love hockey,” he’d said once, shaking in his mother’s arms. It was true, for the most part. He didn’t quite know how to function with everything else—it all seemed bleak, like there was a gap between knowing what you were good at and what you weren’t. He felt like he couldn’t leave it. As if it was a responsibility, but with disappointment, everything turns into an obligation.  

 

When he was this young—it never felt like something he could build on, but more like he had to carve a history out of it, that having his father’s name meant that it was another kind of pressure to be better. But it was never a mere ‘better’ that Jack wanted—or at least he realises that now. Sometimes you can try your hardest and still fall short of being good enough.

 

 

 

 

 

“I feel like crawling out of my skin,” Jack complains, turning the AC on.

 

“You’re Canadian,” Bitty tells him, grinning as though Jack told him a joke. He dials down the temperature. “Now you know how I feel like, when you used to walk outside in the snow with just a t-shirt on.”

 

“Winter in Samwell isn’t as cold,” Jack tells him. “You just forget to bring your jackets all the time.”

 

“Don’t know how many jackets y’all want me to actually _wear_ ,” Bitty says, under his breath, though loud enough that Jack can still hear him. “The pond freezes over, for god’s sake.”

 

Jack points out, “you play hockey.”

 

“Just because I play hockey doesn’t mean I have to _like_ the cold,” Bitty huffs, “turn left.”

 

 

 

 

 

Bitty’s brought sandwiches.

 

“Knew you’d get hungry,” he says, “I’ve packed a few containers of pie, if you’d prefer that instead.”

 

“Didn’t bother to bring any clothes, eh?” Jack laughs, biting into his share.

 

“There’ll be Laundromats,” Bitty waves his question away. “And I could always buy new shirts, I’ve got some money.”

 

“You didn’t have to bring any.”

 

Bitty fixes him with a glare. “Don’t you _dare_ suggest that the only money we’ll be spending is yours.”

 

“It’s just—I’ve got money. It makes sense, seeing as I’m the one bringing you here.”

 

“I know you have it, I just don’t feel right,” Bitty says, folding his legs on the dashboard— _why are his shorts so_ short?—and wiping his hands with a tissue. He’s always been incredibly agile with his limbs, on the ice, or anywhere else. All these pieces of Bitty—it comes back to Jack, sometimes, in the middle of the night, or during practice, or at the side of the road, apparently. He knows he misses him, that much is clear, but it never really hits him how _much_ until he sees him like this, curled up in the passenger seat, singing his lungs out to Beyonce. Maybe he could have had this earlier, if he had the guts.

 

_Chrisse_ , Jack thinks. He had this for a year and then he didn’t. He had Bitty living so close and this could be all he has left, if Bitty decides to leave him someday, the normal routine when friends drifted apart.

 

“Hold still,” Jack says, and climbs out to search for his 5DS, before sliding back into his seat. Bitty’s eyes widen when he sees the camera, but he stays where he is, eyes trained on him as he dials down the shutter speed, takes off his UV filter.

 

He moves to steal Jack’s sandwich after he’s done. “Are you off your diet plan?” Bitty asks, as Jack shows him the picture he’s just taken. It’s incredibly obvious. Jack doesn’t think he cares.

 

“For the time being,” he answers.

 

“Well, you’re going to be eating greasy food with me the entire time.”

 

Jack laughs. Of course Bitty will try and exploit that for as long as he can. “Just remember to eat more protein, eh?”

 

 

 

 

 

One thing about the highways—is that it seems to stretch on forever. Jack doesn’t know what he was thinking, striving to make this road trip alone, but he’s thankful for the company he has now. There’s an ache in his knees from how long he’s been sitting, but he wants to get to the motel before it’s too dark. Bitty seems to be content, though, tapping his feet to whatever’s on the radio. It feels inexplicably normal to have him beside Jack, though it’s been a few months since they’ve met.

 

He itches to touch him. He could pull over and wrap a hand around Bitty’s neck, he could press their lips together and it’d be that easy, but it isn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack doesn’t realise it at first, but he’s started humming along to the songs that Bitty seem to like, the ones that he plays three times. There’s something soft in the way that Bitty watches him when it finally registers, and it makes him want to stop, makes him want to hit the brakes and stare back, hopeful. But it’s a line that he doesn’t dare to cross, Jack’s spent his time wanting; he can wait for a few moments more. He doesn’t think he can handle spending the rest of this trip feeling burned.

 

 

 

 

 

“We should take pictures,” Bitty mentions, as if he didn’t know that Jack was going to do it anyway. “For Shitty and Lardo and the rest of the team. Souvenirs and all.”

 

“Okay,” Jack says.

 

“Does Shitty know? That you’re leaving for this?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack tells him, brushing away a stray crumb near Bitty’s mouth before he could catch himself. His hand freezes, and it’s a second before he comes up with some half-assed explanation, “got something there.”

 

“Right,” Bitty says softly.

 

“Yeah uh, Shitty knows. I told him I was coming out, that I didn’t want anybody to talk to me for a while. It’s just—I don’t know if I could handle the reaction, right now. I don’t feel like finding out. ”

 

Bitty puts a hand on his shoulder. “Still brave of you, though. I mean—you’re the first one.”

 

“That’s what Shitty said.”

 

“’Course he did,” Bitty smiles.

 

“I think it wasn’t so frightening,” Jack tells him, and it feels like the truth. He just felt exhausted, like he’d taken too many checks and needed a break, like his brain wouldn’t have let him gone away with hiding. Mostly it just felt like someplace that he hadn’t been before. “I’m more relieved. I...... don’t think I care as much as I should be.”

 

Bitty hums, “but there’s nothing wrong with that, is there?”

 

“With what?”

 

“Caring,” Bitty says, and his voice is quiet, nothing like how he sings, or the way he shouts at Jack’s games, when he has the time. “It’s difficult to show people parts of yourself. Even more so when you've got the whole world's eye on you."


	2. all the while awaiting anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s not really the sunset that Jack’s interested in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y'all i'm sorry that this chapter is only 1.5k long, i just couldn't find a way to continue but you guys like it anywayyyyyy

Bitty’s eyes look like they’re about to start closing when Jack asks, “mind if I stop?”

 

“Go ahead,” Bitty replies, stifling a yawn. “Found a view?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says, watching the early evening light pour over him. “It’s good lighting.”

 

Bitty smiles at him. Maybe Jack’s tired—but something pulls down on his heart, and he thinks that it could be easy to pretend. Close your eyes and breathe. Wait until the quiet passes, until he says your name. Could be easier to wake up if it wasn’t you he’d be calling for.

 

Jack wants to say: “I’m sorry.”

 

Jack wants to say: “I think maybe you loved me back, once. When the opportunity passes you can’t really get it back. Feelings slide and slip away; you could let your gaze shift and suddenly they’ll vanish. Ask for them to come back and you’re going to be the only one still waiting.”

 

Jack wants to say: “I wasn’t brave enough. I have never been. I’m still not. I want you to let me try again. I don’t know how to do that. I think I still love you.”

 

Instead, Jack says, “Could you help me get my tripod?”

 

 

 

 

 

It’s not really the sunset that Jack’s interested in. Bitty’s present in his viewfinder, because there’s no reason why he shouldn’t, with the last spot of light catching the angle of his jaw. Jack knows how it feels like to stop breathing but he thinks he’d give every one of his inhales, exhales to Bitty. If only.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack shows him the picture.

 

“That’s me,” Bitty points out.

 

Jack breathes out, and wills himself to stay calm. “I always liked taking pictures of you. Back when—”

 

“—yeah,” Bitty says, meeting his eyes. His gaze doesn’t waver. “Back then, huh?”

 

 

 

 

 

They spend another hour in silence; Bitty’s iPod is charging but he’s left it turned off.

 

For the sake of it, Jack asks, “I always wanted to ask you—why Samwell?”

 

“One in four,” Bitty responds. “Isn't that why you came here, too?”

 

Jack nods. “Isn’t that the case for uh, most people?”

 

“Guess so,” Bitty says. “Samwell’s up north, and uh. It’s pretty far from Georgia, and I’d thought, hey, why not?”

 

“That was it for me, too,” Jack tells him. “The distance.”

 

“There’s nothing wrong with wanting some space for yourself.”

 

“It feels a bit too much like running away,” Jack confesses, and the truth of that admission comes out easy, like a quick goal, a fast shutter speed.

 

Bitty tilts his head at him. “Depends on what you do, after that.”

 

Jack smiles. “Giving me a reason to procrastinate, Bittle?” He asks, and Bitty lights up with indignant laughter.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack keeps thinking: _this is where I’ll get a call on my emergency number_. They’ll come for him and talk about how it’s too difficult to handle his absence, that he needs to come back and make more statements, more interviews, more press. He’ll have to apologise to Bitty, tell him it was nice while it lasted, he appreciates it, he wishes he could have done more, he wishes that he had _did_ more. It’s like waiting for a final push that’s still threatening him, and the only thing coming to mind is: _not yet_.

 

 

 

 

 

Bitty’s fiddling around with Jack’s camera when he says, “I’m feeling like pie. Want some?”

 

“Sure,” Jack shrugs, and doesn’t try to stare when Bitty leans over to rescue his stash from the backseat. Keeps his eyes on the road.

 

Jack feels his stomach growl when Bitty opens the lid of the container. “Sorry,” he says. “Kinda hungry.”

 

“Figures,” Bitty says, looking at his watch. “We can switch.”

 

“Eat your pie first,” Jack says, looking over to Bitty’s lap. “They’re maple?”

 

Bitty flushes. “I was thinking of you.”

 

Jack feels his heartbeat speeding up—but he aborts the thought before he can follow up on it. “Oh?”

 

“I was just—no. It’s kinda stupid.”

 

“No, it’s not. Tell me.” Jack reaches out, wraps a hand around Bitty’s forearm. He should let go, he really should, but Bitty’s skin is cool from the air conditioning and Jack can feel himself heating up, the anxiety kicking in.

 

“I thought that you’d come by the Haus.”

 

Jack smiles. “But I did, didn’t I?”

 

“No,” Bitty says, careful. “I just thought you’d want to catch up with me. Before going for the trip, of course.”

 

Jack shifts his grip upwards, rubbing his thumb over Bitty’s upper arm. “I would. I did. I mean… You’re here, aren’t you?”

 

“Guess so,” Bitty sighs, and Jack releases his grip, fingers burning, as Bitty bites into one of his mini pies. Jack swallows, shifting his gaze.

 

“I’ll switch with you after you’re done,” Jack says.

 

Bitty hums, swallowing the last of it. Picks another one up and holds it to Jack’s mouth.

 

“Uh,” Jack says. “I’m driving, Bittle.”

 

Bitty snorts. “I know you are, silly. Why else am I trying to feed you?”

 

Jack gives in and bites a chunk off, but his lips brush against Bitty’s fingers, and Jack sends him an apologetic glance.

 

“…Don’t worry about it,” Bitty stammers out, the red in his cheeks growing stronger, but it’s not as if Jack’s in any place to talk. Jack swallows, his tongue darting out to catch anything that he might’ve missed, and Bitty looks away. The pie’s good, though, and maple at that, so Jack braves the awkwardness, ducking his head down to fish the rest of it into his mouth.

 

“It’s nice,” Jack says, when he’s done chewing, and decides that he should at least compliment the pie. “Missed your cooking.”

 

“Thanks,” Bitty says. “Want another?”

 

 

 

 

 

Bitty ends up feeding him the rest of them, and doesn’t mention the way that Jack wraps his mouth around the pads of his fingers for a little too long.

 

 

 

 

            

They switch, and as Bitty’s buckling his seat belt in, he says, “You kinda drive like an asshole, Jack. Tailgating, and all that.”

 

“Only time I can afford to be,” Jack says, shrugging. “I’m from Montreal.”

 

Bitty rolls his eyes, but it seems indulgent. Jack fumbles into the backseat to grab another container of food.

 

 

 

 

 

(Bitty’s kind of a reckless driver, and a passive-aggressive one at that, but Jack doesn’t mind. It’s so different to Bitty’s usual demeanour that it shocks Jack, a little, but not by much. “ _I’m_ like an asshole? You’re the asshole,” Jack says, as Bitty re-passes the person that cut in front of them. He slows the car down, and turns to grin innocently at Jack, “ _Am_ I?”)

 

 

 

 

 

The screen on Bitty’s iPod lights up green. “Your player’s done charging,” Jack tells him. “Do you want me to put on Beyonce, or…?”

 

Bitty giggles. “Put on whatever you’d like. Halo, if you’d want.”

 

They’ve listened to this same song for about five times, now, but Jack likes it. Likes the way it progresses, and he thinks: _if you had been brave enough._

 

 

 

 

 

“Is this Chicago,” Jack says, rotating the atlas as he turns on the lights. “I don’t know. I can’t read.”

 

“You’re a big giant baby,” Bitty tells him, pulling over to the side to take it out of Jack’s hands, peering down at the thousands of intersections. “We’re almost there, anyway.”

 

“Are you tired?” Jack asks. “We could switch.”

 

“No,” Bitty says, even though he’s currently stifling a yawn, one hand covering his mouth. “You did the bulk of the driving.”

 

“I don’t mind,” Jack tells him. “My legs are little longer than yours. Less tiring.”

 

“Shut up,” Bitty groans, but there’s no heat in it. Gets back onto the road and hums along to whatever pop song he’s blasting on the speakers. "I bet you're real glad I came along to navigate, huh?"

 

Jack puts on his best imitation of a Georgian accent on. “Sure am,” he says. Bitty swats at him, but it’s true—Jack doesn’t see how this trip would have been worth it, doing it alone. He thinks about all the time he’d have spent inside his head, trying to get out of it, trying to focus on something else, but it’s easier, having Bitty around to distract him with his singing. Jack clears his throat. “I’m really glad you’re here.”

 

 “Oh, Jack,” Bitty says, resting a hand on top of Jack’s. “Anytime.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jack supposes that there’s a possibility that they would be recognised in Chicago—he just came out. People are bound to notice, if the media blows this out of proportion. There’s a reason he wanted the getaway. He wonders what it would feel like to get back onto the ice.

 

 _You’ve gotta be brave, Jack_ , his mother told him once, right before the overdose, right before he went and fucked his own life over. The pills were a comfort, back then. Jack would shut his eyes and eat one pill after the other. Breathe in steady, don’t cry. Swallow the water and the rest of your prescription, you could always come back for more. Everything seemed more muted when he ate more than he was supposed to. The world felt like a fire he’d already been scorched by.

 

He looks over to Bitty, brows furrowed lightly in his concentration. Wonders how many times he'd have to mess up what he already had just to miss out on what he wanted. _Like a repeating cycle,_ Jack thinks. _Some people just never learn._  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'll clean up mistakes later i AM WIPED


	3. something gaping, something new

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was this time when he was younger, about a decade or so—though everyone has their moments.

It’s a testament to how tired Bitty must be feeling when they reach Chicago, because he doesn’t even bother trying to argue to pay for his own share of the room. They’re taking a single, because it’s all the hotel has left—but it’s fine. Jack will take the floor.

Bitty’s halfway through unpacking when he says, “Jack. There’s only one bed.” The air conditioner whirs quietly on top of them, and Jack takes off his shirt, still feeling heated.

“I’ll take the floor.”

Bitty glances at him, gaze lingering, before he looks away. “We could share. Which side of the bed do you sleep on?”

“Not much of a preference,” Jack says. Bitty’s got his back to him, busy with playing fridge tetris with the containers he’s brought. “You sure?”

Bitty turns around. There’s a hint of anger to his expression but it dies down into something else. What happened, he thinks. Jack used to be able to read him much more easily than this.

“Jack—”

He interrupts Bitty. “I’m going to shower.” Jack walks into the bathroom. There’s a thump outside. It goes silent; Bitty’s not moving anymore.

Jack stands under the hottest water they can provide.

 

They both end up in the same bed. Jack pretends to sleep when Bitty slides under the covers next to him, falling under the moment his head touches the pillow. Jack sees his eyelashes fluttering slightly, the bedside lamp casting shadows. He has half an idea to reach for his camera but he doesn’t. This seems too intimate to capture.

“I’m sorry,” Jack whispers. It’s practice for when he’s brave enough to say it louder.

 

The sun rises just as Jack wakes up. Bitty’s eyes are still closed. Chicago looms over them in her entirety.

“Good morning,” Jack says, a bit emptily. Even in his sleep Bitty looks like he’s missing something.

 

Bitty blinks himself awake. “Hello,” he says, voice slightly rough as he blinks up at Jack. He’s grabbing at the bedside table for something.

“You left your phone back at the Haus,” Jack tells him.

Bitty stares at him blankly before catching up, his eyes crinkling up with laughter. “I actually forgot.”

Jack ruffles his hair. “Trying to tweet?”

“Ha ha,” Bitty squints his eyes at him, deadpan.

 

There was this time when he was younger, about a decade or so—though everyone has their moments. Shut your eyes and dream about wrapping your arms around another boy’s waist so tightly that you left bruises, imprints of your trembling fingers stark against their skin as you kissed them away. It feels something like an aching wound begging to let heal. Jack feels like it’ll never scab when he sees Kent around, now, looking as haunted as Jack is by his anxiety.

Zimms, Kent used to laugh, the engines rumbling beneath the both of them. He was fearless then but it’s an easy mistake when you’re young. He used to shout above the wind as if they were the only one for miles. It’s easy to lose your grip. Jack never wore a helmet when they rode together, but Kent never really tried entertaining the possibility in the first place.

 

“Come on, Jack, tag along and stop being grumpy,” Bitty says, pulling him into a bookstore after breakfast. His hand curls around Jack’s wrist, grip tight. “I just wanna look around real quick and see if they have any notebooks.”

“I’m not grumpy,” Jack says, but follows him in anyway. “Notebooks?”

“’m thinking of keeping a journal,” Bitty mutters, ducking down low to go through the bottom shelf.

Jack smiles. “Your finals are over, Bittle.”

He gets a glare for his trouble. “I’m buying this to write down all the stuff we do for my vlog, silly.”

“And your Twitter?”

Bitty laughs. “Guess I won’t have to worry about the 140 character limit.”           

 

Jack holds up a postcard. “You should get some of these for the team.”

“Good idea.” Bitty surveys it for a minute. “Tango would like them,” he says, and picks out several more. Leaves Jack feeling inexplicably content.

 

Jack keeps his cap down low. Bitty seems to notice but doesn’t say anything about it; is content to let Jack shield his gaze from curious onlookers as much as he wants to. Bitty is standing in front of him, talking in hushed tones—quiet enough for Jack to have an excuse to lean in, hiding his face as if he’s ashamed.

He’s not. He just feels like he’s just on the edge of being overwhelmed; Jack’s hearing plenty of himself on the news as it is.

 

At a Starbucks, Bitty says, “we should leave.”

Jack steals the cup out of his hands. Bitty lets him. “Do you want to?”

“Sure,” Bitty says, folding his arms. Something about him is quieter when he doesn’t have his phone in his hands. Jack supposes that it’s his fault. “Or we could stay.”

“Okay,” Jack says. He finishes the cup as slowly as he wants to.

 

Bitty’s finished with writing down notes in his journal when they leave. He smiles at Jack occasionally, the kind that he’d have gotten after he promises to try one of his pies. Brighter. Jack supposes that he’s making progress.

“What are you planning to tell your viewers?” Jack asks, watching Bitty lick away his ice cream. He shoves his hands into his pockets. “That Jack Zimmermann popped up one day and asked you to go on a road trip with him, and you said yes?”

Bitty laughs. His head’s thrown back, and Jack would’ve raised his camera if it weren’t in his bag and a hassle to take out. “No, silly. I’m not going to mention you at all.”

Jack hums. “Why?”

“Why what?” Bitty asks in return, biting into the cone. There’s a smudge of ice cream on his cheek and Jack wants to wipe it away. Just for the excuse of getting close—but he thinks, what the hell, and steps closer. Presses his thumb lightly against his cheek to wipe it away. It’s not like he hasn’t done this before. Back in the car.

“Why wouldn’t you,” Jack says, hands hovering mid-air. Bitty’s looking at him as if he knows. He must; Jack might be clueless but he’s aware of how transparent he is. He’s already stripped away the layers of his privacy out to the public. One more person couldn’t hurt.

Jack clears his throat. Picks up the pace, but slow enough that Bitty walks at his normal speed. He doesn’t move away. “Good publicity, right?” He adds, after a moment’s thought.

“Sure,” Bitty shrugs. “But do you want me to?”

Jack bites his lips. He does. He wants the people applauding and shaming him to know that his heart hasn’t been in his own hands for a long, long time. It just took him too long to realise.

He settles on an answer. “I wouldn’t mind.” It’s true.

 

They’ve been walking for a distance when Jack speaks. “Let’s go see SUE.”

Bitty grins at him. “Field Museum, right? Of course you’d wanna go.”

“Are you going to chirp me for that?” Jack laughs. “For wanting to see a T-rex?”

“No,” Bitty says, knocking their shoulders together. “I’m going to chirp you for spending the rest of our day looking at ancient Egyptian artifacts, or something.”

Jack raises an eyebrow. “Maybe we should go to a hockey museum instead.”

Bitty sends him a withering glare, but it doesn’t quite take hold. Jack slings an arm over his shoulder, and they’re standing, waiting for the traffic light to turn green.

 

“It’s slightly frightening,” Bitty tells him, looking up at the skeleton. “You know. How big it is. Forty feet tall and it was still alive all these years ago—how amazing is that?”

Jack could go for several chirps, right now, but he honestly doesn’t feel like it. “We have scale, too,” he says, shifting to the side so that the family to their left could get a better view. “It’s not the same, obviously, but it’s still the same planet. Just the fact that we dug her up from the ground is…”

“Amazing?” Bitty looks up at him, eyes warm.

“Sure,” Jack says, and lets Bitty tug him by the arm into another exhibition.

 

In the middle of looking at the terracotta warriors, Bitty says, “I don’t think we let ourselves wonder about it too much, y’know?” He lets out a sigh. “That it was all real. You’ve got the name up there, and you’re supposed to judge them for what’s happened. Maybe even blame them for what we’re going through now.”

Jack breathes in. Qin Shi Huang burned away six other languages after he conquered China. You’ve got people lost in there, scrolls hidden under mud and dust and the heavy concrete that the country stands as now. Hard to believe a different kind of world.

“People still make an impact,” Jack says, when they’re out of the museum, and Bitty turns mid-step to look at him. The heat is too much to keep a cap on for Jack, so he takes it off. “It’s always in a subtle way, so you can’t exactly tell what’s going on—but just because you don’t know about it doesn’t mean it’s not there. In history there’s always the gaps that people aren’t looking to fill. But we all have ourselves in there. Someone that’s just trying to get along. Maybe SUE was an ordinary dinosaur.”

Bitty inclines his head. “An ordinary dinosaur,” he says. “Is there such a thing?”

Jack shrugs. “Depends on what kind of kid you were.”

Bitty reaches over for his cap. Tugs it down his own face. “What kind of kid were _you_?”

“Ugly. Fat.”

Bitty raises an eyebrow. “So the puberty genie granted you a wish, then?”

Jack feels his face heat up. “I don’t know about that.”

“Really?” Bitty looks genuinely surprised, for an instant. “Professional hockey player, Jack Zimmermann, greatest ass in the world, ugly?”

“Eh,” he says. “There are better-looking people out there.”

“Hard to imagine,” Bitty says, and raising his chin a little. Like a challenge.

Jack hums. He says, “I can think of a few.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really messy, i know, it's unfinished but i can't bring myself to finish it i just can't
> 
> 30/04/2016: unbeta'd
> 
> rambly time, there's nothing important here so feel free to skip out on this if you don't want. basically. i've written this entire chapter for an inexplicably long time because i don't know how to write it. plain and simple as that.
> 
> this fic is honest to god a mess, and i'm /really/ stressed out with writing because i am a writing robot who cries and tears her hair out when the stuff she writes isn't good enough because of course someone has to stress out over fanfiction, right, haha how ridiculous. (but also some people intend to get into it professionally one day, y'know, and sometimes they'll cling to the silliest thing to keep them staying anywhere near mentally healthy hahaahhahaha lowkey pathetic honestly). so please give me some time for chapter four, and hopefully i'll have cleaned this garbage up by then. if i do a rewrite i'll mention that, but i won't change the plot of this, of course, i'm sorry y'all have to put up with me going nuts uhurguighrug9102y72384fghggh
> 
> anyway tl;dr: author is incredibly stuck. like a turtle between a pair of chopsticks, so i might do other projects in the mean time but i s2g i will not abandon this. okay.

**Author's Note:**

> If you're interested: I have an [omgcp sideblog](http://holsterr.tumblr.com).


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